Precision
by Five Minutes Til Bedtime
Summary: John finds a mysterious box under his tree a day after Christmas. His hands stop shaking. An excitement he hasn't felt since - One-shot.


Title: **Precision**

Fandom: Sherlock

Word Count: 802

Summary: John finds a mysterious box under his tree a day after Christmas. His hands stop shaking. An excitement he hasn't felt since - One-shot.

* * *

There is a box under John's Christmas tree.

It is not a present. It can't be, despite the black bow tied over its inky surface. The presents were opened yesterday on the proper day when Christmas presents are meant to be opened. The day John tried to make his false smiles a little wider, a touch more serene. When he opened their flat – and it would always be _their _flat, not his – to their friends and family.

The box couldn't possibly be a present, because John couldn't possibly manage another false smile to greet it.

A mysterious box under his tree a day after Christmas. What a mystery. A jolt of something crawled up John's spine. An excitement he hasn't felt since –

Stop. Don't. No.

With the precision of a soldier, John gently set down his cup of tea, ignoring how the rattling it had been making in his shaking hands – they were always shaking now – abruptly cut off with that little jolt of _something_.

On sturdy, trusted feet, John's body was carried to the Christmas tree. There was no ache in his knees when he bent down, not hesitation in his hands when he reached for the box and lifted it.

It was light. Far, far too light even for its small size. It was the sort of box a woman's necklace would come in, or a man's watch, but the weight belied its secret that there was nothing of the sort inside.

A black ribbon encircled the black box. Wide and made of silk, John thought of the Woman briefly before dismissing her. This was too obvious for her and besides, her exquisite red present had been found and opened already. This was something new.

There was no tag. Mycroft, perhaps then? But no, John wasn't speaking to the man and besides all the presents he had sent already (there had been at least six, all pushed unopened and unwanted to the back of John's closet) had been of blue and silver.

Who else then? Who was it?

John's hands had stopped shaking but they wavered when he touched the bow, precisely tied but obviously done by hand. Not a perfect knot, but so very, very close. The material felt like water to his fingers, cool and mysterious.

He pulled. The ribbon fell away. He lifted the lid.

The box was empty.

Something dropped inside of John. A weight, a breath, something got heavy and painful inside of him.

An empty box.

What was this?

Holding the box up higher, John examined the insides closely. The inside lining was gold and beautiful and absolutely empty.

Just a box after all. No present. Not anything.

John's hands tightened. He drew his arm back prepared to throw the box down and smash it to pieces when the sudden movement brought the smell of lemons suddenly to his nose.

He brought the box down carefully. Sniffed inside. Lemons. The box was full of the smell of lemons.

There were very few moments when John Watson understood something so quickly and so easily as he did in that moment. He was not a detective but this was a mystery he knew. Suddenly this empty box with nothing but the smell of lemons inside was a promise.

A promise and a message. John raced towards the kitchen.

Empty cupboards were thrown open. The fridge was scoured. Every nook and cranny of the kitchen search and turned over but still no lemons.

Like a madman John dashed out of the flat and threw open the door to Mrs. Hudson's rooms. The woman squawked on the couch, getting nothing more out than a frightened, "John?" before his prize was found and the doctor was bolting out again, no words said, and locking the door behind him when he reached his flat again.

To the kitchen he went, in one hand a yellow lemon and in the other an empty box. His body felt possessed. He saw different but familiar arms in place of his own. Long, spidery fingers overtook his own short, calloused digits to fish for tissue and swabs. A knife crushed the lemon in two, juice pouring out of it like the blood of so many different bodies he had ever seen. Only this was beautiful.

And then carefully, slowly those possessed fingers came and dabbed at the inner surface of the box with a swab of lemon juice. He covered every section of the small space quickly and efficiently and then lowered his fingers as he waited.

The writing appeared shortly. Tall letters in a beautiful and harsh hand. John_ knew _that writing.

And the empty box was suddenly full of the most priceless present that John Watson had and would ever receive.

_John,_

_Believe in me._

_Soon._


End file.
